


Respect

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: BioShock
Genre: Beating, Cigarettes, Dubious Ethics, Gen, Physical Abuse, Power Imbalance, Robbery, Threats, Uneasy Allies, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Augustus Sinclair isn't sure why he extends a charitable hand that night, and to Andrew Ryan no less, but the sight of his business competitor beaten and bloodied hits too close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what this is. Just a random drabble. I couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> As to when this is set, I'd say in that transitional period as outlined in Bioshock: Rapture (the novel) when shit starts getting bad/uneasy in Rapture, but there's still some time before the fall. So poverty/unrest, but not splicers, basically.
> 
> Also, don't ask me what the boys were doing in Siren Alley to begin with. That's their business. :P

* * *

     In a cramped, shabby bedroom in Siren Alley, two of the biggest names in Rapture sit in an uneasy silence. The room reflects the abnormality of the situation in which they were stuck. The most secret of trysts would be carried out in better places than this. This was the sort of den of poverty and desperation that no one living the high life would ever normally set foot in. Yet these circumstances were anything but ordinary.

    On the bed, splayed awkwardly, his chest falling and rising with each irregular breath, Andrew Ryan languished. Augustus Sinclair looked on from where he sat, smoking a cigarette, hunched slightly in an uncomfortable chair that wobbled when he crossed his legs.

    When he’d found Ryan, he’d been hesitant to recognize him. Whoever had attacked him had done a real number on his face, which was now bloated and purpling. Sinclair had already ruined a handkerchief and Ryan’s shirt cleaning blood off the other man. He’d taken Ryan’s undershirt off while he was at it, revealing what were clearly a few hard kicks to his ribs, where the treads of a boot had scraped him and the flesh was already blossoming with dark stains.

    He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to help him. To be honest, most of him wishes he’d left him there, in the gutter. He made an effort not to stop to help up the fallen – it led to nothing but trouble. But somehow he couldn’t just go, couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen him, especially after Ryan had rattled out a weak ‘Sinclair?’ and coughed and spit up blood and Sinclair had waited just a moment too long before looking away.

    Somehow, he’d found himself abandoning his principles and winding up with his arms around his business rival, supporting his weight and leading him along a slow trek to the closest place with a bed. He’d tipped well enough that there were no questions asked, and had hurried to get them both shut away.

    The room, for all its flaws, had two advantages. One was the sturdy door with a functioning lock, which Sinclair had made use of immediately. The other was a window with vertical blinds that you could peer through without giving yourself away to outside observers. If anyone else wanted a piece of Ryan, they’d have a devil of a time finding him.

    A wet groan pulled Sinclair’s attention back to the man on the bed. Ryan seemed to be waking, which was hopefully a good sign. He groaned again, looking around with alarm and wincing as pain tore through his side.

    “Easy now, Andy, you’ll tear yourself to pieces,” Sinclair drawled, offering the man a swig of whiskey from a small flask he had in his trusty ammo belt. Ryan took it and winced as it burned its way down his throat.

    “Where are we?” he rasped.

    “I can’t say for certain. Some place of ill-repute, I’m sure. I had more pressing concerns when we arrived than the name over the door.”

    “Why the hell did you bring me here?” Ryan growled and Sinclair fought back a prickle of irritation. “Why, Andrew, that’s a terrible way to thank the man that pulled you out of the gutter and got you back on your feet, quite literally, I might add. You bled on my shirt.”

    An uncharacteristic flush spread over Ryan’s neck and he looked away.

    “I don’t want your charity.”

    Sinclair’s frown deepened and he poured some of his liquor into a cut on Ryan’s stomach, making the other man wince. It was spiteful, but the wounds did have to be cleaned. He set to work tending to them, noticing how quickly Ryan let him.

    “You are all talk, mister,” he muttered coolly. “I may have just risked my life saving you back there. For all I know, I walked in on a hit or something.”

     “You didn’t,” Andrew grimaced, baring bloodstained teeth. He rolled his head sideways on the pillow to meet Sinclair’s eyes with his one good one, the other swollen entirely shut. “They frisked me,” he added and Sinclair raised an eyebrow, pressing down on one of Ryan’s more stubborn cuts with his booze-laden handkerchief.

    “They?”

    “Some… rabble of insignificant paupers,” Ryan said, raising his arm enough to weakly and dismissively wave his hand. “They took my wallet.”

    Sinclair, under different circumstances, might have laughed at the thought of the creator of Rapture himself getting taken by a bunch of common pickpockets, but all he felt now was fear. After all, as long as he stayed in this part of town, he was just as much of a target.

    “Poverty will do that to people, I suppose,” he said neutrally, bringing his cigarette up to his lips. Ryan mumbled something incoherent and then moaned with pain.

    “How many were there?” Sinclair asked.

    “I count- I counted… seven,” Ryan rattled, and coughed until blood flecked his mouth. Sinclair nodded absently, using his handkerchief to wipe at Ryan’s lips and chin. “They had… no right. I… made this city… I deserve… respect,” he added, his voice tight and strained. Sinclair nodded.

    “I have no empathy for thieves,” he agreed, and moved to clean a cut on Ryan’s ribs that made the man wince and bite back what might have been a sob.

    “Broken?” Sinclair asked. Ryan glared at him with his good eye.

    “How should I know – I don’t make a… habit of getting assaulted!”

    Sinclair, feeling the prickle of anger return, pushed on the injury, just a bit, just enough to make Ryan convulse on the bed. This time he really did sob.

    “I could kill you right now, take out my business competition, and no one would ever know,” Sinclair hissed, a part of him liking how Ryan writhed and bled and cringed. “Now, I am helping you this time, so you owe me some respect, and that means you don’t sass me, got it?”

    Ryan nodded once, still proud, still unbroken, and Sinclair respected that and removed his hand. Ryan inhaled sharply. Sinclair moved to put his cigarette out in the ashtray that sat on the bedside table, thought better of it, and put it out on Ryan’s thigh instead, without warning. The man bellowed and Sinclair flicked the butt away.

    “I’m gonna keep watch now, Andy, and you’re going to get some rest. If you need anything, don’t forget that right now, I’m your ticket to getting out of here. That means ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ and basic civility.” Ryan, worn out and tear-stained and too exhausted to protest merely nodded and sagged into the mattress, his eyes falling shut. Sinclair lit another cigarette, uncrossed his legs, and watched the door.


End file.
